


You Must Like Me For Me

by dapperyklutz



Series: Give Geralt Love [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt gets a lot of firsts, Geralt gets all the affection he deserves, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Light Angst, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperyklutz/pseuds/dapperyklutz
Summary: There's a routine that Geralt has established for decades, and it’s a routine only for him and Roach. So the thought of adding another variable to the equation is both baffling and unsettling. Who would willingly seek the company of a witcher, anyway?Destiny has not been kind to him and Geralt has already forgotten what it’s like to have a friend, tobea friend. If it will come knocking on his door, he wouldn’t know the first thing to do or say.So nothing prepared Geralt for Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Give Geralt Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859470
Comments: 28
Kudos: 642
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Geralt Fluff Week 2020





	You Must Like Me For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 Prompt: First Times
> 
> It's my first time joining a Prompt Week, so I'm a bit nervous. Also, I finally managed to write a fic that's under 5k (after so long)! Hooray!
> 
> Self-beta'd. Hope you enjoy reading!
> 
> Title is taken from Taylor Swift's _Delicate_.

The full moon is high on the cloudless indigo night, thousands of stars twinkling above as he straps the sack to the chestnut mare tied to a tree far away from the bog.

Exhaustion settles deep in Geralt’s bones as he trudges back to the village on foot. Roach’s reins is clutched in one hand as he guides her through the quagmire they found themselves in, two decapitated heads of the kikimora he fought earlier swinging from the sack attached to the horse’s flank.

The potion he took before the fight still runs through his veins, making his skin crawl as the telltale sensation of being stretched too thin makes him growl to work off the effects of Cat. It’s always been like this, and no matter how many times Geralt has downed any of his potions it never fails to make his bones brittle with tension, with… _something_ just a shade of animalistic.

Thankfully, it’s a long walk back, so by the time he reaches the village his eyes will be back to normal and his complexion would resemble that of the living instead of the undead. He really doesn’t want to see or hear the reactions of the people if they see him looking more monstrous than usual.

Geralt snorts at the thought before he sighs in relief once they reach the uneven road.

Beside him, Roach snorts and butts her head against his shoulder, heedless of the viscera and mud that covers the witcher from head to toe after battling two fully-grown kikimora for more than an hour.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get your dinner soon,” Geralt mumbles with an affectionate pat at his long-time companion.

As they continue to walk in companionable silence, Geralt does his best to ignore his aching muscles. He silently takes stock of his injuries; swollen knee, sprained wrist, a few bruised ribs that makes breathing a tad more uncomfortable given the armour he’s wearing, and a long cut down his back from where the second kikimora managed to get a lucky swipe at him.

All in all, it’s not as bad as Geralt initially thought. He still has another mile to walk on foot because of the uneven tracks, and he doesn’t want to risk injuring Roach by taking his considerable weight on the rough path. At least then he’ll get to ride her for the last three miles.

The promise of a hot bath and comfortable bed to rest his sore body is what pushes Geralt to quicken his pace amid the pain in his swollen knee and aching ribs.

From there, he lets his mind wander.

~

As The Butcher, all Geralt has experienced for decades has been fear and hatred; men and women alike spitting at him, throwing insults and vitriol at him and his kind. Children would steer clear of him, innocent eyes wide with terror whenever Geralt rides too close.

_Witchers don’t have emotions, but The Butcher is the worst of them all._

_I heard The Butcher killed those men in Blaviken because his bloodlust got the best of him._

_They said he’s raped and murdered men and women for fun._

_Rumour has it that he has no sliver of humanity left in him._

_The Butcher isn’t only known for killing innocent people. That fucking monster eats children, too._

Geralt takes those caustic, backhanded comments with stoicism and tries his best to put it behind him. It’s difficult, and some days it’s harder to maintain the walls he’s built around his heart to stave off the venomous words uttered so casually, so cruelly. It’s only through sheer force of will and stubbornness that Geralt manages to put one foot in front of the other without stumbling.

Destiny has not been kind to him, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to succumb to the darkness that constantly plagues his heart and mind nowadays, especially when he’s gone for so long with no human contact or company.

Roach is more than enough.

He tells himself to _remember_ his purpose, his duty.

Nothing else matters except The Path.

Search for a contract. Kill the monster. Survive. Get paid. Repeat.

The world has cast him out as a heartless monster and has shunned him from all the _soft, warm, comforting_ aspects of humanity he’s always craved for, even after the Trials.

The lone wolf is what he’s become. Silence and loneliness is all he’s ever known since.

~

There's a routine that Geralt has established for decades, and it’s a routine only for him and Roach. So the thought of adding another variable to the equation is both baffling and unsettling.

Who would willingly seek the company of a witcher, anyway? Especially if it’s The Butcher of Blaviken? Geralt has walked The Path for so long he’s forgotten the soft touch of an enthusiastic lover, the warmth their kindness brings that is seldom bestowed upon his kind, especially after what happened in Blaviken, and the honeyed taste of gratitude pouring off villagers and townspeople after he’s saved them from some monster or another.

Destiny has not been kind to him and Geralt has already forgotten what it’s like to have a friend, to _be_ a friend. If it will come knocking on his door, he wouldn’t know the first thing to do or say.

Probably grunt an insult, to be honest.

All his words are for Roach. All his care and attention are focused solely on his horse, who’s been his longest companion since he started walking The Path. Of course, Geralt has gone through half a dozen horses since then, but he’s named them all Roach because he’s nothing but a fool who still clings to the notion of sentimentality.

The thing is, Geralt has lived for so long that entertaining to idea of having a _human_ companion is preposterous. Unlikely. It’s utterly confusing.

So nothing prepared Geralt for Jaskier.

~

Jaskier is everything that is _soft, warm, and comforting_. He is all the things that Geralt thinks is _good_ in life, and that why he’s fucking flummoxed to constantly be on the receiving end of the traveling bard’s sunny smiles and tender touches.

Sweet Melitele, don’t get him started on _that_.

The first time Jaskier touched Geralt, the witcher unthinkingly slapped his hand away from where it found purchase on Geralt’s shoulder. It was an innocent touch, meant for comfort or _something_ Geralt can’t define, because it happened after a hunt gone wrong and nearly cost the bard’s life.

The shock and _hurt_ that passed over Jaskier’s face in that moment made bile rise in Geralt’s throat. The acidic burn of guilt, so familiar yet so foreign at the same time, nearly made him kneel before the bard and beg for his forgiveness because _he didn’t mean to hurt him_.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier tells him before Geralt can begin to entertain the thought of groveling in front of the man. “Forgive me, my friend. I forgot that you didn’t like to be touched.”

It’s not that, Geralt thinks. He’s gone so long without physical intimacy that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be touched like he wasn’t something to be feared or killed.

“S’fine,” he rasps out finally after a few attempts of clearing his throat. Geralt hesitantly lifts a hand to awkwardly pat Jaskier’s shoulder, the bard looking more moved than surprised at the unexpected gesture. “Sorry. You just startled me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and the bard tilts his head at the witcher with a thoughtful look. Then he smiles brightly at Geralt, and a part of him that he once buried long ago starts to stir. “That’s fine. I’ll be more careful not to startle you next time, then.”

 _Next time_.

Something almost child-like in Geralt latches on to that promise like a favourite toy.

~

Like a candle that’s been lit in a darkened room, Jaskier’s presence brings such brightness and vitality in Geralt’s life that the witcher never dreamed, never hoped, of ever having in his lifetime.

Jaskier has made it his life’s mission to write and sing songs about him. Granted, said songs don’t accurately depict the adventures they shared (“It’s called artistic license, Geralt! People would rather hear a song about you besting a cockatrice with your bare hands than that time you made a rookie mistake while fighting a drowner!”), but it does help make his reputation better.

Whenever they walk into a town or a village now, people’s first reaction is to stare at Geralt with wariness, and frankly he’d rather have that than their stares of hatred or contempt. The fear still resides in their scents, but it’s actually more manageable now compared to before.

The care and attention that Jaskier also pays to Roach makes something warm settle in Geralt’s gut. He’s lost count the number of times he’s witnessed Jaskier secretly feed his horse sugar cubes and apple slices when he thinks Geralt is not in the vicinity. And Roach, who’s only ever allowed Geralt to pet and touch her, turns to putty in the bard’s sweet words and affectionate pats.

Geralt would be incensed if he weren’t so endeared at the sight of his long-time companion and his friend bonding.

It only takes a few months of traveling together before Jaskier becomes an expert in patching Geralt up. From stitching his skin to applying salves in too hard to reach areas, and to grabbing the correct potion to heal internal injuries. Geralt doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve someone like Jaskier, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth and ask Destiny _that_.

~

The first time Jaskier kisses Geralt, it’s after he patched up the witcher following a nasty fight with a pack of wild wolves.

They’re camped in the middle of the woods, three days away from the next town when they were ambushed by the wild beasts. Geralt sustained a few injuries — nothing fatal, obviously — but enough to worry Jaskier who _tsked_ and _tutted_ like a concerned spouse.

Despite his injuries, Geralt still took his time to secure and brush down Roach, much to Jaskier’s consternation who kept grumbling whilst setting up their camp. After, when they’re perched on a fallen log in front of the crackling fire, when the bard has cleaned and stitched the three gashes on Geralt’s right flank and left shoulder, Jaskier leans in and —

He presses a soft, dry kiss on Geralt’s bandaged arm.

Geralt stiffens at the gesture, startled golden cat-like eyes turning to the blushing man next to him.

The crimson blush on Jaskier’s face is both endearing and strange, and Geralt is astonished to find his own cheeks and ears begin to feel warm. It’s only thanks to his mutations that witchers no longer blush, but the telltale signs indicate that he would also be in a similar state if his body was still capable of doing so.

“Sorry, I just… couldn’t help myself,” Jaskier lamely explains with a shrug.

Geralt arches a brow at him.

“Hmm.”

“Yes yes, I know. Don’t get your smallclothes in a twist. It’s a one-time thing.”

~

It wasn’t a one-time thing.

Geralt’s heart skips a beat when, a week later, Jaskier unthinkingly kisses his cheek in thanks after the witcher saved his prized elven lute from a group of bandits who pounced on them.

~

The hugs come next.

Geralt, who has gone so, so long without physical intimacy couldn’t help his body’s compulsion to latch onto Jaskier when the bard wraps him up in a tight hug when they reunited after being separated during the winter.

“I’ve missed you, dear friend,” Jaskier gushes to him after Geralt awkwardly pats him on the back.

“Hmm,” is all Geralt says, but he’s certain that Jaskier can detect the joy he feels in that hum.

~

The first time Jaskier helped Geralt bathe, Geralt’s first thought was that he’s thankful witchers can’t blush. The press of Jaskier’s calloused fingers against his shoulders, his scalp, his _buttocks_ , as the bard rubbed chamomile over his body and scrubbed him clean, was something that Geralt never saw coming.

No pun intended.

He’s careful to cover his moans with grunts instead, however he’s equally shameless to spread his legs a little wider in the too small tub, thus allowing the bard a peek at the hardness between his thighs. Jaskier never says anything, he never does, but the smell of lust and arousal coming from him is hard to ignore as well.

Geralt’s perfectly okay with it. After all, since his reputation has been slowly mending, he’s able to go to brothels again. But that doesn’t mean he’s averse to whatever is brewing between him and Jaskier. Not at all.

Fleeting touches that were once innocent and platonic now has a certain weight that Geralt is too afraid to name. He’s never instigated anything, instead always patiently waiting for Jaskier to make the first move. It’s alright too because Jaskier is the most tactile person he’s ever met, and so Geralt constantly has physical contact with him. May it be a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the back, or fingers massaging his scalp or untangling the locks of his hair during his baths, Jaskier is almost always touching Geralt.

 _Soft, warm, comforting_.

Speaking of baths, they have become routine after Geralt comes back from a hunt. Sometimes, if he deems it too dangerous for the bard to come along with, Jaskier would be waiting in their shared room at the inn with a hot bath and equally hot meal for him, ready to service the witcher after a long night of battling monsters.

“My dear, you smell absolutely horrid,” Jaskier greets him brightly the fourth (fifth? Sixth? Who’s keeping count, anyway?) time it happened. Geralt, who’s covered head to toe in selkiemore guts, hums and shrugs. The grin on Jaskier’s face is wide and fond, eyes crinkling as cornflower blue eyes trail over his form, seeming to look for further injuries. “Come on, then. Strip. I’m burning your clothes because that’s the seventh time you’ve worn that shirt while battling a selkiemore. Really, Geralt. We’re going to the market tomorrow to buy you a dozen shirts, and good _gods_ , is that an intestine dangling from your pants?”

~

_Soft, warm, comforting._

These are the words that Geralt now associates with Jaskier. As for when it happened or how it began, he wouldn’t be able to give an accurate answer.

It just… is.

Jaskier’s soft voice now fills the silence, which Geralt once deemed to be a blessing, with pretty prose, bawdy verses, and heartfelt narration about anything and everything under the sun.

Jaskier’s warm presence is a welcome change from the decades when Geralt used to walk The Path alone, lonely and aching for human connection. To remind Geralt that he’s more than his mutations, that there’s still something _good_ left in him. Jaskier’s friendship and compassion has thawed the iciness that’s enveloped his heart for so long. Every time he smiles at Geralt, radiant and glowing and oh so _tender_ , Geralt can’t help but compare himself to a flower that is carefully attuned to the warmth of the sun.

Jaskier manages to give Geralt comfort like no other. From patching up his injuries, to giving him a bath, to massaging his aching muscles and tending to his tangled hair with care and uncanny patience. The way Jaskier takes Geralt’s sharp and rough edges with gentle hands is enough to reduce the witcher to tears. The point is, Jaskier’s affection, which is wholly and freely given, never fails to give Geralt comfort. He is grounded by the bard’s touch, and somehow he feels protected by it, too. Which is laughable because it’s Geralt who does the protecting.

And yet.

“If you protect us from the monsters out there, then who protects you from the cruelty of mankind?” Jaskier asks him one night as he stitches Geralt’s side from a fight with a bruxa. They were run out of a village after Geralt delivered the head, too prejudiced to offer the witcher and his bard a room for the night. “I’ve heard the rumours. I’ve seen firsthand how those people treat you. I know I’m only one man, Geralt, but I promise you: I’ll protect you in my own way.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, but the tight feeling in his chest belies his casual reply.

~

It stands to reason, then, that more than a decade in The Path together would lead Geralt to fall in love with Jaskier.

Though it should terrify Geralt, he is anything but. How can he be afraid when he’s never felt more safe, more grounded, more _seen_ than in the presence of his bright, loud, and mouthy bard? 

Everything that happened since then has been leading to this moment, after all.

~

After Roach has been stabled for the night, Geralt thinks.

After he shows the alderman the heads and is rewarded quite handsomely, Geralt continues to ponder.

When he enters the inn, viscera and mud and all, Geralt ignores the silence that follows in his wake as he limps his way up the stairs to the room he shares with Jaskier. All the while, his mind continues to whir with thoughts about his bard.

“Melitele’s _tits_ , Geralt,” Jaskier greets him with an eye roll before he wrinkles his nose at him. “ _Eurgh_ , did the kikimora shat on you by any chance?”

Geralt grunts as he shuts the door behind him. He sets down his swords and satchel on the writing desk before he starts to unfasten the clasps of his armour.

Despite his distaste, Jaskier clicks his tongue and flits towards Geralt, batting his gloved hands away to take off his filthy armour. Partially amused but completely fond, Geralt rolls his eyes and lets the bard do his thing, knowing that it’s Jaskier’s way of checking him for injuries.

“Where?” Jaskier asks, _demands_.

Geralt internally sighs at the sharp look his bard gives him but dutifully lists the injuries he sustained during the fight. By the end, Jaskier’s lips are pursed thin, brows creased with worry. Geralt sighs out loud this time, and he softly nudges Jaskier’s boot with his own muddied one.

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, aiming for comforting but likely missing it by a mile as he stares at wide cornflower blue eyes he’s grown to cherish. “Nothing you haven’t patched up before. And I could really use a bath any day now.”

Jaskier sniffs before he finishing his task of removing the rest of Geralt’s armour.

“Good to know we agree on that, witcher, you smell fucking atrocious,” Jaskier replies, but his tone is playful and oh so warm that Geralt is unable to fight off a smile. He doesn’t bother to hide it when Jaskier looks up at him, the bard’s gaze softening. “Come on, then. Strip.”

So Geralt does.

It takes an hour and a change of water for Jaskier to deem Geralt clean, the witcher putty in his hands the entire time as Jaskier rubs his arms and chest with a rag, massages his scalp, and meticulously untangles his hair. He takes extra care to clean the long cut across Geralt’s back, relieved to know that it doesn’t require stitches.

And though Geralt’s mind wanders, he doesn’t miss to notice how some of Jaskier’s touches seem to linger longer. A thumb rubbing small circles on his nape while Jaskier scrubs away the blood and mud from his back. Dexterous fingers trailing less-than-innocently down his hairy chest to “check” for injuries. Geralt lets Jaskier do as he pleases with a hum, subtly inhaling the familiar scent of arousal and lust while his cock twitches with interest at the attention his body is being given by his bard.

“All good now,” Jaskier whispers over his shoulder.

Geralt fights down a shiver when he feels the other man’s warm breath on his ear before he opens his eyes and slowly gets up from the lukewarm tub.

When he’s dry and dressed in his smallclothes, Geralt allows Jaskier to drag him to sit on the edge of the bed. He thrusts a plate of salted pork and vegetables at Geralt’s waiting hands before Jaskier moves to kneel behind him on the bed to tend to the cut across his back. As Geralt eats his dinner, he listens to Jaskier prattle about his performance at the tavern earlier that night. How the crowd was receptive and generous with their coin. How the food tasted fresh and flavoursome, although the ale was a lot to be desired for.

Jaskier continues to chatter about his performance that evening, filling the comfortable silence with his soothing voice. Geralt empties his plate in record time and like clockwork, Jaskier trades the plate for a mug of ale.

“Back done, I need to apply salve on your other injuries now,” he says next.

Geralt polishes off his drink as Jaskier finishes applying salve on his temple, which Geralt didn’t realise was bruised. After, Jaskier drops a kiss on his forehead before he moves away. The spot where Jaskier kissed him tingles, and Geralt takes a deep breath before he allows his mind to wander again.

He remains seated on the edge of the bed in his smallclothes, golden cat-like eyes trained on the other man fluttering around their rented room like a hummingbird. Jaskier shifts the sullied armour to a corner of the room before he corks the bottles of scented oils he used for Geralt’s bath. He stores said bottles in his pack before flitting to the nightstand where he picks up the empty plate and mug to transfer it to the writing desk, all the while humming a tune under his breath.

A well-known sensation blooms in Geralt then. For the first time in an incredibly long time, he finally allows that feeling to settle comfortably in his chest. Like it’s meant to after all these years.

And for the first time in, well, _ever_ , Geralt decides to make the first move.

He stands up, his movement graceful and confident, and the action immediately catches Jaskier’s attention. The bard, _his_ bard, Geralt notes with smug satisfaction, stares at him with a curious tilt of his head.

“Is everything okay?” Jaskier asks, one brow arched. He blinks when Geralt takes a step towards him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Then he gasps and brings a hand to his face. “Is—is there something on my face? _Geralt_ , answer me, you brute! Is there kikimora guts on my face? I just finished my skincare regime before you arrived, I can’t—”

“Your face is fine.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh as he closes the remaining distance between them. He doesn’t hesitate to bring his hands up to frame Jaskier’s face, his touch light. Delicate. Jaskier’s face is smooth and clean-shaven, and Geralt can’t help but inhale his scent. Dried sweat, ale, the assorted oils he used on Geralt’s bath, and the dinner he ate earlier are the strongest. But underneath those: orange blossom, peaches, and the lavender oil Jaskier frequently uses. And something musky, something that makes Geralt’s mind chant _Jaskier, Jaskier, my bard_ that he can’t help but press his forehead to the other man and inhale deeply.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers, cornflower blue eyes blown wide with surprise and desire. His breath is warm and smells of ale, with a hint of mint which Geralt surmises he likely chewed earlier.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers back, his voice rough like gravel.

He hears Jaskier gulp. “For what?”

At this, Geralt’s chest rumbles. He can’t help but smirk when he sees Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bob, his arousal spiking and making Geralt heady with want and lust and _love_.

Because there’s no doubt in mind that Geralt of Rivia, infamous Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf of Kaer Morhen, is completely arse over tits in love with this annoying, impossible, magnificent man.

His bright, loud, and mouthy bard.

Jaskier, who is everything that is soft, warm, and comforting in Geralt’s life.

“For keeping me right.”

When Geralt finally closes the gap between them, he’s not certain who moans first. But that doesn’t matter, to be honest.

Walking The Path will never be easy. He will still be subjected to hatred and prejudice, and vitriolic comments about him and his kind. He will continue to take contracts, and there will be times when he’ll be shortchanged or not paid at all.

The Continent is a vast world, but Geralt knows better now.

There’s still good in this world, and there’s good still left in _him_. Destiny was never not kind to him. She was simply biding her time until Geralt and Jaskier’s paths aligned. If anything, all the hardship Geralt endured prior to meeting his bard led to here.

And Geralt knows he would go through everything again, if only to reach this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> I may have fucked a bit with the timeline, but let's just take it as artistic license, right?
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](https://jaskierstark.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi. 👋


End file.
